


Fanny Underhill, or Memoirs of a Hobbit of Pleasure

by Lustmord (OurPaleCompanion)



Series: Arda Marred: An Erotic Compendium [1]
Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-18
Updated: 2016-12-18
Packaged: 2018-09-09 15:20:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8896519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OurPaleCompanion/pseuds/Lustmord
Summary: Fanny Underhill is a Hobbit who gets what she wants. But can her lusts be controlled, and will she regret letting them loose?





	

The Bree marketplace was in full voice, with merchants and buyers alike clamouring and quarrelling at all sides; red-bearded Dwarves with their gems and metalwork, men from beyond the Greenwood with Elvish wine, Hobbits from the Shire with their finest pipe-weed. Scoffing at a mischievous Dwarf who draped a fine silver necklace across her decolletage with a wink, Fanny entered the main square and smirked as the mood shifted, as it always did; barrel-chested hawkers lifted their voices a little, called her to them, enticing her with generous discounts in the hope that more than money would change hands. “Lovely to see you again, Missus Underhill,” a burly Hobbit greeted her from behind piled rows of fruits and vegetables, touching his cap.

“Farmer Appleby,” Fanny greeted him with her trademark wide smile, all big white teeth and dimples. “I do swear, your crop gets finer every month. How do you do it?” The Hobbit tapped his nose.

“Trade secret,” he muttered conspiratorially. “In the Appleby family for generations. Though, I suppose I could be convinced to part with it,” he mused, running a rough hand over the milk-white skin of Fanny’s cheek, playing with a lock of her long, curly hair. Fanny’s green eyes widened in feigned interest, biting her lower lip.

“It’s warg shit!” A red-haired Hobbitess interjected, appearing at the farmer’s side from behind a stack of pumpkins, casting an evil glare in Fanny’s direction before staring daggers at her husband. Farmer Appleby retracted his hand as if he’d stuck it in a fire and immediately set about organising his stall.

“Certainly is! Father swore by it,” he announced loudly, pointedly avoiding his wife’s gaze with a look of horror on his face. “And what’ll it be for you, Missus Underfanny? I mean, Missus Underhill?”

Fanny giggled sweetly as the farmer’s wife retreated back to their cart, narrow eyes stabbing straight through her. “Your finest marrow, please, farmer,” she asked, grinning at the sight of his Adam’s apple diving down into his chest. Forcing a smile, he handed her a marrow the length and girth of her arm. “Goodness,” she breathed, closing her fingers around it slowly. “It’s  _ so  _ big.” As she fluttered her thick, black eyelashes, Farmer Appleby decreased in height a full three inches, stooping with a barely-audible groan. Fanny leaned in, parting her plump lips until they were an inch from the marrow’s flesh, before pulling it out of Appleby’s hand without ceremony and putting in her bag. “How much do I owe you?”

A squeak, barely recognisable as language, was all the response she got from the farmer. “Three bits!” Came the vicious tones of his wife from the cart. Fanny handed over the money with a smile and turned away, making sure to lift her skirt just enough to pull tight around the curves of her arse. That should be enough, she thought to herself as she made her way home, for Farmer Appleby to work with. 

Ever since she was a child, Fanny had never been scared of going after what she wanted. Whether it was another sticky bun or a kiss from a boy, she was never one to heed to restraint; and her direct approach and forceful personality had won her plenty of both. As she had entered her tweens, however, she had found that it was much more than kisses she wanted from boys; her loins ached with yearning as she watched them till the fields, sweat on their glistening muscles and sun glowing through their golden hair. She had sat, hidden behind her bushes, and brought herself off over and over to the thought of their arms pulling her this way and that. She knew, thanks to the sage confidence of her sisters, what lay stashed in their trousers, and she longed for it.

After months of personally watering her cabbage-patch, Fanny finally got her wish. Pilger Underhill and his brother Tredegar had decamped to the barn to escape the afternoon sun to find Fanny sat on a haystack, skirts hitched up and legs open. Young Tredegar had gone bright red and hadn’t known where to look as his brother pounded her enthusiastically, flushing her cheeks bright red with elation as she climaxed around his throbbing cock. It was only with the most flattering of encouragement that she had coaxed him into following his brother, and taken his first-ever load. Jelly-legged and light-headed, she’d tottered from the barn leaving a sticky trail behind her, and looking forward to a very enjoyable future ahead of her.

Throughout her tweens she bedded nearly every Hobbit from Bree to Hobbiton - young and old, single and married - not to mention a number of travellers from Mitchel Delving and Frogmorton, keen to empty their sack far from their wives’ ken. The fire between her legs simply couldn’t be quenched, and no number of cocks seemed to be enough to satisfy her. However, a woman’s needs are not just carnal, and as she came of age she married young Tredegar; still as bashful and adorable as ever, she had always had a soft spot for him. Their life in Bree had been one of simple domesticity; Tredegar tended to the fields, and Fanny to the house. But Fanny’s passions had not decreased with wedded bliss - they had only multiplied. 

The marrow was put to good use before ending up in the pot, and Fanny winced as the familiar and enjoyable ache between her legs twinged while she stirred. When Tredegar tramped in from the field, mud-streaked and sweat-soaked, she silently gave thanks that he’d be in no mood and no condition for her that night.

“Bloody Rangers,” he grumbled as he sat down heavily at the kitchen table. “Made a right bloody mess of t’top field, trampled all my best radishes!”

“What’s that, my love?” Fanny replied, having been momentarily distracted by another blissful bloom of pain, as she ladled stew into a bowl for her husband and presented it to him. 

“Those Rangers,” he repeated, sneering as he said it, “they’re back and camping just half a mile from the gate. Reckon you’ll see them in town tomorrow,” he said, stuffing his mouth with a crust of bread and chewing noisily.

“Oh,” Fanny said, her voice almost a sigh. The Rangers, mysterious and elusive, hadn’t come to Bree in years; something about them, back then, had infatuated Fanny with them. Their stealthiness, their secrecy, or simply the air of quiet menace they exuded; she couldn’t put her finger on it, but they enthralled her.

“You tell me if they cause you any trouble, alright?” Tredegar mumbled. “Pilger and I will soon sort them out.” 

Fanny smiled warmly. The thought of a pair of Hobbits - especially ones as blustering and retiring as the Underhill boys - routing a troop of surly Rangers was adorable. “Don’t you worry your head none, Tredegar Underhill,” she replied, running a hand through her husband’s curly hair. “I can handle myself with any Man.”

Fanny was sure, in fact, that she could handle herself with all of them at once.

* * *

Tredegar’s prediction had come true; the next morning, as she made her way downtown to have some clothes repaired, Fanny found that all of Bree seemed to be looking over its shoulder and peeking from doorways. At dawn, it occurred, the Rangers had ridden into town and occupied the Prancing Pony, waking old Barliman Butterbur from his sleep with their pounding at the door. The mood in the town, usually so effervescent and carefree, turned noticeably sour, with dark mutterings on every street corner and from every market stall. A small crowd had gathered outside the houses opposite the inn, sharing speculation, or simply gawking.

“Maybe they want to buy it off him,” A fat old Hobbit suggested to his friends. “Must be a valuable estate, that, people come from all over these parts to visit.” The other Hobbits nodded sagely, puffing out great clouds of pipe-weed that wreathed their heads.

“Never seem ‘em in such numbers,” one grizzled old man commented to his neighbour, a red-nosed woman with arms like a docker’s and a face like thunder, leaning out of her kitchen window like a hunting-dog straining at the leash. “Not since I were a lad an’ the Goblins up North started causin’ ructions.”

“I’d like to bloody know what they’re doin’ ‘ere an’ all,” the woman replied, pointing a rolling-pin at the stone-faced Ranger who stood guard outside the door of the inn, silently scanning the passers-by sending him withering looks. “It’s not proper, descending on us and scaring us like this. But, they won’t give words to us that’s beneath them,” she finished bitterly, making an obscene gesture to the impassive guard before slamming her shutters on the crowd. 

“Has anyone asked them?” Fanny asked the old man, who responded as though her suggestion were utterly alien.

“Now, why’d anyone do a thing like that?” He replied with a touch of horror. “They’re dangerous folk, those Rangers. Wanderin’ the wilds, comin’ an’ goin’ as they please - who knows what trouble they’ve seen. I suggest they leave it well behind ‘em,” he growled, hunching his shoulders and shuffling away. Fanny smirked. She loved Bree-folk, but they were awfully unadventurous a lot of the time. 

The crowd murmured in surprise as Fanny made her way through them and crossed the street to stand before the guard. “Excuse me, Sir,” she asked, her sing-song voice as clear and sweet as bells in spring. “What business do the Rangers have in Bree?” The guard did not speak, but kept his face, half-hidden by his green hood, forward. Fanny cleared her throat. “Maybe I’m just a simple Breelander,” she continued, giggling, “but when a Lady asks a Gentleman a question, it’s very impolite for him to ignore her.”

The Guard drew in a deep breath, like a dragon roused from its slumber. “It’s a matter of utmost importance, Madam,” the Ranger replied, his voice as deep and rumbling as the thunder-battles of the Misty Mountains, “to the safety of the North. Of that, I can say no more.”

“Are you sure?” Fanny asked, flashing a cheeky smile. “It’d get that crowd to leave you alone. I’m sure they must be terribly distracting for you,” she cooed, her eyes flickering down slightly to the bulge in his crotch. Fanny knew all about being distracted.

The Ranger coughed uncomfortably. “I am sworn to my Chieftain to reveal nothing more - not even to friends,” he replied tersely. Fanny nodded.

“I understand. I hope  _ they  _ do,” she replied, nodding back towards the milling crowd, who seemed as though they expected the Ranger to pick her up and swallow her whole at any moment. “But I’m glad to hear that we _ are  _ friends.” The Ranger cracked a brief smile, which disappeared as swiftly as a butterfly’s shadow. “Don’t think the people of Bree aren’t to be trusted. I’m Fanny Underhill, and I live just across the square, at Acre Cottage. Please feel free to call on me, Sir, at any hour.” For the first time, the Ranger looked down at the Hobbit addressing him and swallowed hard as he took in her huge eyes and sweet smile. “At  _ any  _ hour,” she repeated, giving him a big wink. As she turned and walked back across the street, she hoped the legendary resolve of the Rangers was true - or, stood poker-straight as he was, he’d be a laughing stock for a while, which might just put him off her.

“What did he say? What did he say?” Hobbits and Men alike pressed and prodded Fanny as she returned to the crowd. 

“Ranger business,” she sighed. “You’d have more luck getting blood out of a stone.” A grumble passed around the entire congregation, who slowly began to melt away back to their own business. As they dissipated, the tall and silent guard re-emerged into Fanny’s view, and as she walked away, she could have sworn he stole a look back. 


End file.
